Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Ma’am?"

If anyone is going to bother finding her at this hour, it probably makes sense it's Milly. Meryl looks away from her paperwork and blinks to adjust her swimming vision. She hadn't exactly remembered to take breaks to avoid eyestrain throughout the day; she'll pay for that in a few hours if she isn't already.

"Oh, Milly, I thought you'd be home by now." Meryl forces a smile, as exhausted as she feels. "I'm sorry. Did I make you think you have to wait for me?"

"No, no." Milly shakes her head fervently and comes to stand, centered, in front of Meryl's desk. Her hands are pressed together, clutching something, but even in her adjustable desk chair Meryl doesn't have quite enough height to see what it is.

"I brought you dinner. It's late, and you should stop working and eat something."

"Oh." Milly sounds resolute, and it's sweet, but she can't help but feel like the effort is wasted on her. "That's very nice of you, Milly, really, but I'm not too hungry."

"May I speak freely, ma’am?"

Despite herself, Meryl can feel her lips twitching. Milly is unerringly devoted to the imaginary lines of office politics. "You don't have to ask permission for that. You're a grown woman just as much as I am; you have a right."

"Well." Milly clears her throat, just slightly. It's endearing. "I asked the custodian, and he says you work late almost every day, except Fridays, when they steam the carpets in here. He also said that when you work late, you don't leave the office other than to use the ladies' room. You don't bring in food from home, and no one is here to bring you anything, so that means you're skipping dinner, and that's simply unacceptable."

There is, Meryl thinks, a certain something to hearing your every flaw enumerated calmly and precisely in front of you.

Milly will not let this go, that much is clear, so Meryl swallows another protest. She hadn't exactly been lying before; she isn't hungry. In fact, she feels a bit nauseated, but she should probably be honest and admit she feels nauseated because she hasn't eaten, one of life's most stupid contradictions. Really, she can do Milly a favor this once, and then take care of things herself thereafter. After all, back when she'd been as new as Milly she'd kept snacks in her desk, dutifully brought a lunch from home each day.

When had she stopped all that, she wonders?

"You argued your point very thoroughly, so I accept." Meryl starts to reach for the small satchel Milly has in her hands—the thing she'd been holding, she realizes now—only Milly shakes her head.

"We can eat in the break room downstairs. The custodian said he'll leave it for last, so we won't be disturbing him."

"Is there a reason eating at my desk isn't good enough?"

"There is. Your desk is where you work. If you ate here, you would still be thinking about work, maybe even trying to do it. The entire point of taking a meal break is to take a break, and you haven't been doing that at all."

She has to admit Milly's commitment to her cause is impressive.

She can also admit she shouldn't have stayed quite this late, judging by how deserted the rest of the building is as she and Milly tramp downstairs to the break room. It's midsummer, the weather nice enough most of the employees beg off early to enjoy the sunshine, the long hours of daylight before the sun sets. It's probably nice; it's been long enough since she did that kind of thing she doesn't really remember what it's like.

Most of them are going on dates, she reasons. That's not exactly a priority of hers, so why would she have to hop on this particular bandwagon? Maybe she shouldn't be working so late so consistently, but she doesn't really have the same excuse to play hooky the rest of them do, so what else is there?

Milly ushers her into a seat and pulls plates and silverware from communal drawers and cabinets. The satchel is surprisingly capacious, judging by the two containers–one large, one small–and a mid-sized bottle she removes from it.

"Mushroom risotto and spinach salad," she says firmly as she portions it out for the two of them. "And lemonade to go with it."

"Milly." She wishes she didn't sound quite so startled. "You made this yourself? I don't want you going to nearly this much trouble for anyone, let alone me–"

"Then you should have been eating dinner; I wouldn't have had to worry so much." Milly straightens her skirt and sits, gingerly.

The accusation is… fairer than Meryl wants to admit. Dammit. She picks up her fork but still can't make herself start eating. "And you noticed I'm a vegetarian? Even not seeing me eat much?"

"You asked for an alternate meal at the dinner honoring Mr. Bernadelli. I envied you having that option; the beef and the chicken were none too appetizing."

Not only is she slightly terrified of Milly's heretofore unknown capacity at getting her to follow orders, she might have to overhaul her assessment of Milly's attention to detail on her next performance review.

She says a soft thank you to Milly and waits a moment longer to eat—Milly has her head bowed over her meal, saying grace. Meryl has never been particularly inclined that way, but she can respect its place in the life of someone who is. When Milly picks up her fork, she finally lets herself eat, starting with a delicate spoonful of the risotto to see how her too-empty stomach responds.

The flavor of the mushrooms is so rich, unexpectedly so, she barely stifles a satisfied moan. She'd be embarrassed (and is, a little), but she can see the tiniest smile on Milly's lips as the other woman decidedly does not look her way. She wants to know how Meryl likes her cooking; of course she does.

"This is wonderful," Meryl says after a few more bites of it and then the salad—already she's eaten more than she anticipated she would when Milly first made her proposal, just because it tastes so good. "I… I don't eat like this even at home. I'm not a particularly good cook, but I also don't have time for it, so a lot of what I eat is instant or frozen… I can't remember the last time I had something this nice."

She likes seeing it, Milly smiling at something she says. She thinks she sees a little blush on her cheeks. "I'd like to keep cooking for you like this, ma’am. Please don't think it's any trouble. I do cook like this for myself, and it's rather wasteful to make so much for just me, so you'd be doing me a favor by agreeing."

She should say no, not least of which because she knows it's inappropriate. Maybe it's taking advantage of her station over Milly to let her do something like this—outside of her job description, a demand on her time and resources outside of work—but she can't help being touched by the earnestness of Milly's offer, the consideration of her doing this at all. Milly would probably keep trying to feed her somehow; maybe it makes the most sense to agree to it this way, if it really is just an outgrowth of her cooking for herself.

"I'd like that very much, then, but let me know what I can do to chip in. I'll foot a portion of your grocery bill each week, or I'll order us takeout every now and then so it isn't only on you to cook. Does that sound fair?"

"Very." Milly chews delicately at some spinach and says, once she's done, "Thank you for agreeing to eat with me. It must have seemed terribly presumptuous for me to say all that…"

"No. No, you're right, and you shouldn't have had to look out for me in the first place. I just—don't keep up with myself very well." Meryl smiles, thinner than she'd meant to. "I used to be better at it—body checks, my mom used to call it. She'd make me stop doing homework or chores every now and then to make sure I wasn't hungry, thirsty, needing the restroom, without noticing, when I got so fixated on doing other things. Without someone reminding me like she did, I guess I've started slipping."

At her words, Milly nods thoughtfully, like she's finally gotten an explanation for why Meryl is the way she is. "You always wear such nice clothes, so you should take care of the body in them."

Meryl squirms in her seat, smile flickering. Milly is just about the sweetest person she's ever met, but god, it feels weird, the things she's noticed, the compliments and care she's giving seemingly without expecting much at all in return. There has to be something Meryl can do to pay her back that isn't money for the groceries or the other, incredibly stupid ideas that are coming to mind like a professional reference or more vacation days.

Why exactly is her whole head filled with work? How long has it been like this? If she thinks too hard about it she'll lose her appetite, so she pushes the thought away, but another one follows, about Milly and the time she must devote in the evenings to cooking. Meryl fills her own evenings with… well, with going home and halfheartedly turning a few pages of a novel or, once in a while, listening to a radio serial she's not really all that invested in. She's always too beat to do much else; she'd love to know where Milly gets the energy to cook actual meals.

Why has it taken her until now to realize she really doesn't have much of a life?

It doesn't take the effort she'd imagined it would to clean her plate, and having done so, she feels… well, better. The discomforts of earlier—the eyestrain, the nausea—have lessened if not disappeared entirely now that there's actual food in her stomach, and she imagines by the time she gets home she'll feel pleasantly tired, the way you feel after a good meal, rather than outright exhausted. It feels foolish to reflect on the difference; no shit it feels better to have actually eaten dinner.

"You should take the leftovers, too," Milly orders, thrusting the containers back into the bag and passing it to her. "For the weekend, or if you get hungry again later tonight."

"Are you sure? It was nice enough for you to do this; I couldn't possibly take your…"

"It isn't 'my' food, not entirely! I made it for you."

Maybe tonight's activity will be sitting down and trying to remember the last time before this anyone cared enough about her to make her anything. Meryl takes the bag.

Even she has to admit it's time to head home, and Milly offers to walk with her. Milly lives closer than she does—proximity was the main reason she'd applied to work at the Society—but she claims she doesn't mind the ile or so walk to Meryl's apartment building. Besides, ma’am, you're so small, you shouldn't walk home alone at night! (She'll add Milly to the very, very short—ha—list of people she will accept remarks on her size from.)

"Has your family adjusted to you being away yet, Milly? The way you talk about them, you sound close; they must miss you very much…"

"They seem to, but I write them all whenever I can, so I hope they aren't too sad. They certainly seem to like hearing about the city; Mother said they liked all the scenery on the postcards." She can feel Milly's gaze angled down on her. "Do you write to your parents, ma’am?"

Milly had asked once, making conversation, if she had any siblings, and Meryl had shown her the picture on her desk as answer, her and her parents and not a whole hell of a lot else. She was sure her parents had wanted more children from the pained smiles they'd given rude acquaintances over the years who'd asked if they were really sure they wanted to stop at just the one. As a child, she'd resented the implication she wasn't enough; as an adult, she can't help but wince looking back on her obliviousness to what those strained smiles had meant.

"When I have time–" well, that's a bit of a lie considering her newfound revelation she has no life and how long it's been since she last wrote to them "—but sometimes it's better that I don't. They're very worried about me living in the city. Actually, they'd be thrilled you're walking me home."

Milly glows at the praise. "You should write them a letter this weekend! You got such praise last month for how you handled the Leamer account, and this Friday the street fair is in town, so there will be plenty to write about…"

The street fair is sensory hell if you ask her, but Milly does have a good point. She can channel her guilt into actually making a change. She'll write to her parents come Sunday morning.

And maybe she really can check out the fair, so she won't be lying in her letter. Maybe if she braves the fair there'll be funnel cake. Funnel cake is always worth it.

"I think I'll do that, write to them. Maybe I'll even get some postcards like you did, make it fun." Meryl stops her purse from sliding a bit more down her shoulder. "I guess you're planning on going to the fair yourself, if you mentioned it? Since you already know I don't work late on Fridays… would you like to go together?"

"Really?" Milly stops walking so abruptly it takes Meryl's brain a second to catch up. "You'd like to go with me?"

"Of course, that's why I offered."

"You don't… well, you don't have a sweetheart or anything, do you? I wouldn't want to be in the way…"

"Oh, Milly, not you, too. I get enough needling about me dating from Peg in sales." And she'd be exasperated if it was Peg asking the question, but it's Milly, so she's bemused more than anything. Peg's stance on Meryl's lack of dating life is… less than charitable. Milly, well, she can't imagine Milly harboring the same mean-spirited thoughts, parroting the same things she knows the office gossips do about her being cold or prudish.

"I don't date. And I like it that way! I'm happy just myself. I think–" She's never really tried putting this into words she isn't snapping at someone who's too nosy, has she? "I think it's called being asexual, if a book I read once is right. I'm not interested in sex, so people who want that don't seem all that interested in me. So no, you won't be getting in the way of anyone, and I'd like to have a friend to go with. As much as I like being on my own, it's a lot nicer going out when I have someone to talk to."

"Then I'd like to go very much." In the porch light outside her building, she can see Milly's smile, but it's radiant enough she doesn't think she'd have needed the porch light after all. "Thank you for asking me. And for saying I'm a friend."

"Of course you're a friend. I can't remember the last time anyone did something this nice for me." Meryl raises the bag with the food for emphasis and walks up two steps so she's more on a level with Milly. Milly hasn't moved, so she takes advantage of the chance to hug her quick. "Thank you for walking with me, and for dinner. Would you please call me when you get home so I know you're all right? My home number is in the directory I gave you."

"I will. I hope you enjoy the rest of your night, ma’am."

"Of course I will; you as well. I'll start making a list of everywhere I can go to get postcards."

+

If just one night of Milly's cooking had made her marvel at the difference not skipping dinner could make for her health, her mood, a few weeks of consistent ministrations have Meryl chiding herself for ever slipping that far into disrepair. She can't even mind the slight bit of weight she finds she's putting on, not when she feels better physically than she has in months, from such a simple fix. Milly had been right, then, about taking care of her body.

Her parents had been surprised by the letter she'd spread, game-like, across several postcards, the moreso because, her mother had said in a phone call, you always got so overwhelmed at fairs, we didn't think you enjoyed them much, after a while. She'd admitted that used to be the case, but the street fair had been easier to take than she'd thought. Milly had been okay with avoiding the rides and the areas where people were pressed too closely together; she hadn't seemed to mind using her height and build as an advantage to weave through crowds and procure the food they'd eaten in more tranquil areas. She'd even been the one to suggest watching the fireworks from the roof of Meryl's building rather than the hill designated for the viewing, so they'd be further away from the crowds and noise.

The energy that had gotten her to the street fair and writing to her parents had taken her other places, too. She'd bought some new books at one of the shops she'd stopped at for postcards, something new to shelve alongside the old stalwarts she'd been growing bored with. She'd found herself eyeing the embroidery floss at a craft store, and bought herself a bunch of colors. One day when she felt daring enough she'd become one of those people who embroidered over their worn out clothes, but for now, it was enough to mess around with making bracelets in the evening, something she hadn't done since she was a child. It was good, having something to do with her hands. Healthy.

She'd felt the pull that weekend to do a bit of clothes shopping, to celebrate feeling and looking healthier by refreshing her wardrobe some. She wonders, walking into the offices, if Milly will notice her new outfit; she certainly seemed to notice everything else about Meryl. She'll enjoy having the chance to tell Milly the difference her cooking has made for her body; she hopes Milly blushes when she hears it.

Her path to the elevator is blocked by, she finds as she draws close, a glut of workers from the lower floors all stopping by a particular desk. The crowd thins just enough for her to see as she wends her way past the edges of it and she bites her lip to stop a sigh. Peg is back. Of course.

Peg is beautiful, she won't deny that. Meryl enjoys what designer clothes and makeup she can reasonably afford, but Peg is one of those women, where no matter how good you think you may look in an outfit, they will simply look better. Peg probably doesn't have to work, but she enjoys having someplace to show off her outfits and gossip about whatever social events she attended over the weekend.

Peg is holding court with her arm in a bulky sling. Meryl wants to edge past the desk and to the elevator, but she knows that would be rude given the circumstances and sighs to herself. She needs to offer at least token well wishes.

"Good to see you back, Peg." She comes to stand in front of Peg's desk and smiles thinly. "What happened? I didn't hear through the grapevine. I hope you're not in pain."

"A word to the wise, always have a bath mat in your shower lest you suffer the consequences," Peg drawls, dramatically. Meryl nods. "Ah."

"I was lucky," Peg continues heedlessly. "Derek happened to be staying the night. I don't know what I would have done if I had been by myself."

Here we go.

She can feel her smile thinning, which probably isn't fair. She's probably projecting a malice onto Peg's comments that isn't there, being oversensitive. Probably.

The thought she should be more charitable lasts about as long as it takes for Peg to open her mouth again.

"You should really think about blowing the dust off down there, Stryfe," Peg purrs, so innocently it almost coats the venom over with sugar. "What's going to happen if you slip, or choke on one of those frozen dinners? Who would you call? I just don't want to hear your name in one of those lurid little news stories and know that if you'd only had a boyfriend…"

She's squeezing the edge of Peg's desk so hard her hands hurt, but it's probably better than grinding her teeth. "I'm glad you're feeling better, Peg," she grits out, before she turns and tries not to trip away in her heels.

She prides herself on two things—that she only needs to take a minute in the ladies' room to collect herself, and that she doesn't cry.

Not then, anyway.

Because it's on her mind all day, which she hates. There are a million other things to think about than Peg's shitty insinuations about her lack of a love life. And it isn't like she didn't know Peg makes comments like that; she'd been well aware, and wanted to wish her well regardless. To be the bigger person. To smile and make nice with coworkers she really can't stand because that's what someone who wants a leg up in the company, to have a shot at really helping people rather than endlessly denying claims, needs to do.

She tries not to dwell. Tries. She answers Milly's questions about certain processes and puts out figurative fires and signs off on whatever shit she's asked to. She even manages to smile when Milly does notice the new outfit, and says she likes it. She thinks she's doing well at acting normal. It's not like that's a surprise, not when she thinks back on sleepwalking through the past two years or so pretending she wasn't burnt the fuck out.

It startles her when Milly says it's time for dinner only because she'd been focusing so hard on reviewing some paperwork from the week before, trying to put everything else out of her head. She gives a shaky smile back to Milly's hesitant are you all right, ma’am? and just responds, hoping it's true, "I'll be okay once I've eaten something."

"I think you'll like tonight's," Milly says cheerily as she leads her down the stairs.

"I don't think I haven't liked anything you've come up with so far."

"This one is special," Milly insists. "White cheddar macaroni and cheese! I had never found a cheddar here yet I liked, until this weekend. All the cheeses are just better back on the farm, but this is as close as I've ever gotten…"

At least listening to Milly chatter is pleasant enough it gives her something else to think about. She thinks Milly's little world, where the most important thing seems to be finding a block of cheddar up to her standards, is better than what her own feels like right now—loneliness and cutting remarks that may as well be dripping battery acid and fear.

Milly marshals her into her usual chair and removes the containers (main dish, side dish) and a bottle of juice as normal. This time, though, there's a third container, and Meryl doesn't have to eye it curiously for more than a moment before Milly bobbles excitedly on her heels.

"I should wait until after to show you this but I'm too excited," she bubbles over, prising the lid of the container and tipping it so Meryl can see inside. "My mother told me the secret ingredient to her chocolate chip cookies! Of course, I can't let it out of the family, you understand, but I couldn't resist making them for you, not when I saw how you looked at the cookies when we approved those claims for the bakery that was damaged in the sandstorm…"

So maybe she's close enough to the proverbial edge she bursts into tears, and maybe it scares the absolute shit out of Milly, judging by the alarm in her voice as she sputters "Ma’am–?" The container with the cookies is forgotten and suddenly Milly's arms are around her and Milly is squeezing a little too tight, but Meryl does not fucking care, because she can't stop crying and the pressure of Milly's hug feels good and fuck this, she's upset.

She will offer to pay for dry cleaning for Milly's blouse, she knows that much.

It takes longer than she'd like for her tears to stop, and when they do she's still a sniffling mess, so it doesn't really matter. Milly looks… less alarmed, but alarmed has moved into flat out worried, and Meryl finds as she wipes at her eyes with the heel of her hand (which comes away smudged with waterproof-my-ass mascara) she isn't looking forward to answering questions.

Questions like the "are you okay, ma’am?" she gets right now.

"I'm…" She starts to lie, catches herself, and laughs. "I'm sorry, Milly. I… I had a bad morning before I got to my desk. I didn't want to say anything and worry you, so I sat on it, but I guess it caught up with me. I—I'll feel better when I eat something."

Milly, unquestioningly, pushes a cookie in her hand. Even Meryl can admit that will help, and breaks off a piece of it.

"Ma’am," Milly begins as she chews, "forgive me for saying so, but… it must have been something big that upset you. I've seen you angry, but I haven't seen you cry…"

"It was stupid, Milly, I wouldn't want to bother you with it."

"But it isn't a bother if I want you to talk about it with me, is it? If we're friends…"

Milly looks so earnest, so desirous to help, her chest hurts, and not from all the crying. God, she doesn't want to put it into words, but…

"Do you remember what I said about Peg? And how she doesn't really get… the way I am?" Milly nods. "She… she said something very unkind. I'd prefer not to repeat it. But her point was, she has a boyfriend, someone who helped her out when she got hurt, and she seemed to want to rub my face in my not having that. She acted like if I had an emergency there wouldn't be anyone to help me. And I'm… I'm really afraid she isn't wrong."

She doesn't want to see Milly's face, so she looks at her hands instead, the little dings in the surface of her manicure and the spots of dry skin she needs to do better with lotioning. "You… well, you noticed last month I wasn't taking care of myself at all. I had barely noticed it had gotten that bad, and now that you've got me eating dinner regularly, I notice the difference, and I'm grateful. But you brought home that I'm… I'm not very good at looking after myself, and I wasn't letting myself think about why. I was too focused on this job, because I want to move up and help people, and being in the city, away from my parents… I was homesick, and I still am, and being away from them, the fact that it was you who noticed I wasn't eating, and that I don't have anyone else who would have… I just—I think Peg struck a nerve. I really wish she hadn't."

Milly is quiet long enough Meryl whispers I'm done now, and hazards a glance up. Milly is fussing with the lid to the cookie container, rolling it back and forth between her hands. Meryl is pretty convinced by the silence she'd talked too much, gotten too personal, and she's just about to grab her purse and get up and ask Milly if she can maybe take tonight's meal to go, if that.

"My granny would have said that Miss Peg should have minded her own damn business. And as it happens, I always agree with my granny."

"I think I agree with your granny too." Meryl tries to give Milly a smile, but it's feeble.

"I don't see how it's any concern of hers how you conduct your personal life," Milly continues, shifting in her seat so she can cross her legs at the ankles. "But more than that, she's simply wrong. Just because you don't date doesn't mean you have no one. We're friends, aren't we? You said so. I would help you in an emergency, and with anything else you needed. You'd help me, too."

"I would, happily. But Milly, I… I'm not at all your responsibility. I so appreciate all you've done for me the last few months, but it doesn't have to reach too far beyond this building. You've done more than enough."

"I don't agree. I don't mind helping you take care of yourself a little better. That's what friends are supposed to do."

Maybe it is, and she doesn't know because she doesn't have all that many of those, another point in Peg's favor.

"May I say something else?"

"Anything you'd like."

"If Miss Peg made you feel wrong for being the way you are, then she's even worse than a busybody, she's a harridan and you shouldn't listen to her. It's perfectly fine that you don't like sex, or dating. In fact, you made me think about how I haven't particularly cared about that, either, especially not with the boys back home everyone thought I would. You have every right to decide how you spend your time and who with. I just hope you choose to spend some of it with me, that's all."

She'd feel foolish for starting to cry again, only that particular sand steamer has already left the station and there's no hope of getting it back. When Milly asks softly if she can hug her again, she nods and submits to it more gracefully than before. Milly's still bigger than her and she still squeezes a little too tight, but it feels good when she touches her cheek to Milly's chest and closes her eyes and that's really the only thing that matters.

"I'd still like to eat dinner, if that's okay," she laughs faintly as she pulls away. "And thank you so much for the cookies… you reminded me of my mother's, which is what started the waterworks… you were sweet enough to do that for me, so I'd like to give you something in return."

She sets her purse on the table and pulls out the handful of bracelets she'd tucked inside this morning, all manner of colors and styles. She'd started basic, simple alternating stripes of color, until she'd worked back up to the more complex ones she remembered spending hours on as a child, chevrons and hearts and diamonds.

"It's silly," she starts, lightly fingering the threads at the end of one of the bracelets, "but when I was skipping dinner, I was so exhausted at the end of the day I was barely doing anything at home but waiting until I could reasonably go to bed. When I started getting my energy back, I wanted to do something, and I remembered how much I liked making these when I was a kid. It's—it's been so nice feeling happy again. Fulfilled. And I don't think I would be feeling that way if it wasn't for you looking out for me. So I'd just—really like if you'd take one of these, or several. Friendship bracelets, we used to call them at camp. So it's fitting, for you and me."

Milly will be the one of them to cry now, from the looks of it. She happily takes two—white and pink hearts, and a blue and gold chevron. "I'll be honored to wear them, Miss Meryl. Thank you for offering them to me."

Meryl picks one to put on her own wrist, silver diamonds that are slightly catawampus from her learning curve but there nonetheless. "I'm really looking forward to the mac and cheese," she says softly, brightly, and Milly springs to her feet, eager to serve her.

Chapter Text

Meryl thinks, frequently, about all the things her never having had many girlfriends as a child has cost her. Those fleeting camp friendships had given her pen pals, but socializing at school had never exactly been her forte. Other girls didn't like her intense attention to detail or odd, solitary hobbies. So she'd tried to let it roll off her back and go it alone. She'd always been better at flying solo anyway.

Except now she doesn't much know what it's like to go to someone's home. Even in college, she'd never been one for visiting others' dorms. Parties sometimes carried the expectation of everyone getting drunk and hooking up and all passing out in a pile on someone's couch, and none of those activities had appealed to her. If that meant the only dorm she'd regularly seen the inside of had been her own, so be it.

Milly's invitation to have dinner at her apartment one Friday hadn't exactly come as a surprise. It's been a steady several months of their meals together, and now, sometimes, Meryl contributes, too. Small things, easy little dishes she's learning from a cookbook intended for new wives, a bit of patriarchal bullshit she'd wrinkled her nose at but could admit was useful. With all the cooking for each other they've been doing, it only makes sense for them to do some with each other, and to see each other's homes. She just wishes they'd started with hers first.

Milly had politely declined her attempt to turn it around into just that. I'd like to cook for you in my own kitchen first, ma'am, so I don't get overconfident! she'd softly teased, and she'd smiled in a way that let Meryl know she'd probably sussed out the source of her unease. Milly reads her terribly easily, these days.

She doesn't mind that as much as she could.

Outside the door to Milly's apartment, she tugs at the small crease in her slacks for the fifth time and uses her compact to check her lip gloss a third. Milly had told her to dress casually owing to the cooking, but casual for Meryl is still dressy. Her hands feel a little clammy around the neck of the bottle of wine and she hopes Milly won't notice when she hands it over. At the back of her mind is a nasty whisper that she'll screw it all up somehow, be too odd or too exacting for Milly in her own home and that'll be it between them. It's taken her this long to make a real friend; maybe it makes sense she's convinced she'll lose her.

She makes herself knock, and Milly answers the door quickly enough. Her long hair is in a ponytail and there's a small smudge of something white, probably flour, on her cheek. "Good evening, ma'am!"

"Good evening, Milly." Milly's hands are still damp from washing them, so she just smiles to greet her. Meryl gives her a little one back and toes off her shoes. Out of her heels, she feels even shorter next to Milly. "It smells wonderful in here. What's on the menu?"

"The market I go to on Sundays had some beautiful mushrooms from one of the geo plants. I thought since you liked the risotto I made our first dinner together, we could make that and the spinach salad again, and perhaps some other vegetables? If that isn't too much?"

"That all sounds excellent." Milly smiles easily enough that to cause one isn't all that hard, but Meryl delights in doing it anyway. "But I hope you didn't think I needed you going to the extra effort of those vegetables? The risotto and the salad were lovely on their own…"

"Oh, I knew you liked them; you said so. I just thought maybe it wouldn't hurt to do something special for your birthday."

The thank you that is about to slip out instinctually is quickly overridden by a fortunately brief stunned silence. "You know it's my birthday?" Meryl asks, when she's recovered some words.

"I organized personnel files before I was officially assigned to someone, and when they told me I would be working with you, I had a look at yours to learn a little more about you… oh. That sounds awful, doesn't it, like I invaded your privacy? I'm so sorry, ma'am, I only—"

"No, no, no…" Meryl shakes her head and reaches out to grasp Milly's hands. She feels a bit foolish standing in the middle of Milly's kitchen, dumbstruck, but the simple kindness of Milly's remembering her birthday, unasked, has her reeling. "I… Milly, thank you. I don't… well, I'm not close to anyone else at the office, so I've just been letting it pass by the last few years… I—I actually appreciate you making this just for us. There's no one else around here I'd want to celebrate with besides you."

That Milly has no response to that—that she turns quickly away to tend to the pot of water on the stove—clues her in to… something. Meryl steps forward and lays a hand on Milly's arm when she's sure she won't be turning Milly's attention too far from the food. "You knew that, didn't you? That I wouldn't want any attention."

"It was only a guess." Milly reaches for a dish towel, runs it anxiously through her fingers. "May… well, you always say I don't need permission, but… may I say why I thought that?"

That she has a sense of where this is going already doesn't lessen the twinge in her chest at Milly's obvious reluctance to speak. "It's only… Miss Peg was so… so terribly mean to you that one day. I know I don't even know what she said, but you were so upset, it had to be awful… and, well… I just know Miss Peg talks to everyone else. You've said yourself people ask too many questions about your personal life, and I thought perhaps if all the attention was on you that would start again, and Mr. William—"

Milly snaps out of the ramble abruptly, looking stricken, and Meryl gives her arm a squeeze. "William, what?"

"Mr. William… last Friday, he asked if I wanted to go out with him, and I said no. He said… he said he was only trying to make sure I didn't end up like you. I told him I would be proud to be like you, and… well, I used a number of words I shouldn't have, but I don't care I might get disciplined if he doesn't say those things about you again. … I thought… I hoped it would be nice, if it was just the two of us, and you just said it will be, so—that's all."

Meryl lets out her breath. "Can I sit?" she asks, quieter than she'd meant, gesturing to a stool at Milly's kitchen island, and Milly nods and pulls it out for her. Meryl steps up onto one of the rungs and leverages herself heavily onto the seat.

Milly turns the heat down so the water won't boil over and pulls out another stool to sit beside her. "Should I not have said? About Mr. William?"

"You didn't do anything wrong, Milly, but I know you know that." At least she feels like she can smile, so she does, to hopefully ease Milly's nerves. "You stuck up for me and I appreciate that. And I can tell you didn't mean to tell me he said that. … It… it isn't like I don't know the things people say. That I'm a prude, or that I need to lighten up and get laid, or that I'm—" She lets out another little breath, pressing her fingertips into her eyes. "Um, frigid was the worst one, I guess, last time I tried going out with someone… I know people talk. I've known that my whole life, because I'm—unusual. Knowing people talk just—doesn't make it hurt less."

When she looks up, there's a certain set to Milly's jaw she isn't used to. "That person you tried going out with, do they work with us?"

"No. No, it was just—a man I thought I was connecting with." Milly's expression hasn't changed. "Why do you ask?"

"Because if he did and I had to see him every day, I don't think I would stop at just saying the sorts of things I did to Mr. William. Because I can imagine perfectly well what I would want to say or… do to someone that—cruel."

Meryl swallows the lump in her throat and reaches out to pat Milly's hand. "I appreciate that, but it was… a while ago. I'm all right."

"I don't know that I believe that. Pardon me for asking… have you told anyone else people say these things? That they bother you?"

"No. There's no one to tell, not that I would. And no matter how much I explain how I am to people like Peg… if they don't get it, they're not going to. They'll gossip the way they always have."

"Not while I'm around." Milly reaches out to straighten a crease in her pants leg. "I know it doesn't matter much to say I'm sorry about the things they've said, but I am. I actually… admire how well you know yourself, and what you want. I don't know what I want that way."

"And you don't have to! You're still young, Milly; so am I. We have plenty of time. It's other people who make it out like we don't." Milly's praise lingering in her mind, she can't help but want to pull at one of the things that's been looping through her thoughts. "There's something silly I've been thinking about. When you asked me about the fair, you said you didn't want to be in the way if I had a sweetheart. And just before you said person. You didn't assume I meant a man. Peg's only ever said I should get a boyfriend. You haven't."

"Even before we started talking about things… well, I didn't know anything about what you preferred, so it didn't seem fair to assume…"

"You're right. And that's what I appreciate." Meryl can't help but smile a little. "I haven't dated too much, but I like women, too. It took me a while to figure that out, but I know that now. And people… they assume that I'd only ever want a husband. It actually bothers me more than I realized."

"Do you remember when I said you… made me think about me?" She does, so she nods. Milly continues hesitantly, "I thought a little more, after I said that to you, and I realized it… really is true. I never was interested in going out with boys. I'm not sure I do know who I'd go out with… I guess I hadn't thought about it much. I wondered if that was odd, but you just said it took you a while…"

"That's right. It's just like that for some people. Some of us, I guess I should say." Gently, she nudges Milly's shoulder with hers until Milly smiles.

"I really appreciate you talking about it, you know. I said that a little before, but I thought I'd say it for real now." Milly shifts her weight on the stool so they're facing each other, her gaze occasionally straying to her hands or the floor as she talks. "It's… taught me things, which probably sounds silly. But… I feel better now that I know a little more about what I like. Or don't like. And I don't know if I'd have thought about it otherwise. I always thought I… had to, because everyone else did, but… you don't, so… maybe it's all right if I don't, too. Until I'm ready to, or—or even not at all, I suppose."

"That's right." Her heart feels a little lighter in her chest at the thought; she blinks a slight mist away from her eyes. "I'm glad I could help you a little, Milly, truly, even if all I did was just—be me. It… it actually means a lot to me to hear that, because—well, I said it before. People mostly think I'm… strange, so it means a lot that you don't. Anything I've done or said that's helped you—just think of it as repayment for how you've helped me."

"I don't think you're strange, you know." Milly's relaxed some, that set to her jaw gone now, but she still looks faintly angry. "And I think it's awful people have made you feel that way. You've been so kind to me, and you're so good at what you do… I just don't understand why it matters to them so much that you don't date, or that your mind works a little differently. Do you?"

"If I did, I don't think I'd have half as many problems. With people at the office, or… well." Meryl sighs and rubs at one of her temples. "I don't think I'd like to talk about some of the other people it's caused problems with. Not tonight, anyway."

"That's all right. I'm sorry to have brought it up…"

"You don't have anything to be sorry for, Milly. I promise it's not you." Meryl reaches out to give her hand a quick squeeze. "Can we get back to cooking, please? I am hungry…"

"Oh! Of course…"

Milly gets back to the risotto, and sets her to work on preparing the mushrooms. "Did you talk to your parents today, ma'am?" she asks brightly, her attention fixed on the spoon she's using to stir the risotto, and Meryl silently thanks her moons for that. She couldn't quite deal with another penetrating gaze of Milly's about this.

"I did. My father, at least. My mother was—busy." That's one word for it, isn't it? A euphemistic one, anyway.

I just thought you might want to talk, the two of us, Leonard Stryfe had said, sounding sheepish, but—understanding. The same understanding she's had with her father since she was a girl, the one that makes her heart hurt. You know she means well, but… well, things probably haven't changed for you, have they? When she'd confirmed exactly that, he'd sighed, but not at her. You know I'm happy as long as you are, blossom. But she—well, she hasn't changed her mind. I suppose that won't be a surprise to hear…

"He said happy birthday, and there's something for me in the mail. A book, probably, knowing my father; my mother usually sends jewelry, so if I come in wearing anything new…"

"Your earrings, were they from—?"

"Yes. When I turned eighteen." They were only part of the set. There's a ring, too, her mother had added, back then. I'll give it to your husband, of course, when the time comes…

"They're very pretty, I've always thought so… was it your mother who taught you to dress so nicely?"

"It was. She's always been—particular about clothes. Me looking as nice as possible. I didn't mind it as much as I could have when I was younger. It was… nice, her caring that much." At the very least, the other girls at school had never been able to mock her style. Maybe that was why they'd seized on the other things about her instead.

"What does she do? And your father? I don't know that I've ever asked…"

"My father teaches Earth history, or he did, before he retired… my mother works at a boutique in our town. She's very good at making sales. I suppose it's part of why I went into insurance; I had a lot of time to watch how she was with people, the ways you can help them find what they need if you just listen."

"Then your father is why you know so many things." Milly smiles and shifts the pot with the risotto off the burner to let it cool. "I was never very good at remembering dates, or names, in my history classes… I got mixed up a lot. I was impressed, that time you corrected Mr. William."

That had been a good day. Meryl bites her lip so she won't smile too much at the memory. William was always particularly arrogant about history, with the usual overconfidence of a hobbyist unwilling to admit he didn't know everything. He'd tried to impress one of their superiors with dates of some Earth war or other; Meryl had simply corrected him and mentioned a monograph or two her father's colleague had written he could consult if he didn't believe her.

"Enough about me," she says lightly, looking down at the bowl of spinach Milly had started her on once she'd taken the mushrooms. She'd added most of the components already—onion, cheese, some dried cranberries—but there's one she's missing. "This had some nuts last time, didn't it?"

"Oh! Yes. They're in that cabinet," Milly says, pointing over her head. She flushes for a moment and says, before Meryl can point out the obvious issue with the placement, "I didn't put it out, because I wanted to ask first… I got a stepstool I thought might help, if we cook here more often? I know you can't reach my cabinets so easily… you don't have to use it if you don't want to, of course! I'm happy to get anything down you need, but I thought this way you could do it yourself, if you don't feel… patronized, or…"

God, she has to stop feeling stunned whenever Milly comes out with something like that.

Milly brings the stepstool out when Meryl tells her it's all right, setting it up under the cabinet she'd pointed out. Meryl steps up onto it and looks over, reaching a hand out to give Milly's shoulder a little squeeze. It's nice to be on the same level as her for once. "Thank you, Milly. You've put so much thought into tonight; it really means a lot to me. No matter what my parents get me, I think your present—all this—wins the day."

"Did you think I wouldn't? Put so much thought into something like this?" Milly sounds curious, more than anything.

"I suppose so." Meryl finds the little glass jar of pecans and steps carefully back down. "I haven't had many people consider what I want, at least not to the degree you have."

"I'd just like you to be comfortable here." Milly fixes a mushroom into some sort of place with a fork, a curiously fussy gesture, before she turns around to face her. "I figured you'd be coming over more often, and it only makes sense. My family likes to make anyone visiting us comfortable. So if you need to ask for anything, you can. Will you promise me you'll remember that?"

"I promise." Not that she could say anything else, when Milly looks at her so imploringly. "And the same goes when we cook at my place, all right? Though you won't have any problems getting into my cabinets."

Milly laughs, and that makes even an awkward joke worth it.

They talk pleasantly as they prepare the rest of the vegetables, until everything is laid out at Milly's small kitchen table, round and set with colorful woven placemats. (My granny made them, Milly explains, with a wistful smile, when Meryl mentions how much she likes them.) As they settle in their seats, Meryl gives Milly's hand a soft tap. "You know, I've noticed you say grace before we eat… would you teach me how? I don't observe anything, but we're in your home, and it's important to you—I'd like to learn. If it isn't too much trouble?"

"Really?" It's Milly's turn to look a little taken aback. When she nods, Milly flushes, maybe pleased. "Of course. There was a rhyme one of our neighbors taught me once I still like to say.

‘We are thankful for our food

For rest and home and all things good

For the wind and the rain and the sun above

But most of all, for those we love.'

And then we say amen."

Meryl repeats the rhyme just after her, like a song in round, and finishes with a soft amen. "It's lovely," she adds. "I guess now I see why you can be so positive, even when I'm—well, a bit of a grouch sometimes. It's a nice reminder of the good things."

"I think that's why I like it so much. It keeps me grateful for all the things I would take for granted." Milly portions her out some of the food, before she sets down the serving utensils and folds her hands in her lap. "Ma'am, can I say something? It's a bit personal, and it feels silly to ask if I can, when you've told me some of your personal things, but if you don't want to—"

"I'd like to hear, Milly, you don't have to worry about that. I'm honored you trust me with whatever it is."

"All right." Milly breathes in, then lets out her breath in a soft exhale. "I just wanted to say that… I've always been, well… I would say this size—" she gestures up and down at her height, even sitting, and build "—but I obviously wasn't this tall as a child… you know what I mean. I'm sorry for rambling… I guess what I mean is I've always been—big, in some ways. Bigger than people expect, for a girl. So people—not my family, for the most part, but other people—make a lot of… comments. About my size, or my appetite. It made me—shy, after a while, of eating the way I wanted to, or—taking up space.

"So ever since I left home, I didn't always eat around people. I just… didn't want to deal with all that. But… you never made me feel that way. Not once, even when you were eating less, or not at all… I think that was why I worried about you. You're different than me, and it made me notice things… I worried, and since I was worried, I cooked for you, ate with you, and—I just wanted you to know I wouldn't have done that for just anyone. Only you, because you didn't treat me like so many other people have. So—the sorts of things you've been saying, about the way people think of you… I understand it very well, I think. And I wanted to say thank you for… letting me be me, too. I think it's… a nice thing. What we've done for each other."

Meryl stands and picks up her chair, walking around the table until she can set it back down next to Milly's, side by side with her rather than across the table. She lays her hand gently over Milly's, waits for Milly to look up and meet her gaze. "I think you know I'd never say those kinds of things, so we've got that covered… Milly, I mean it when I say you're the best person I know. And that you're perfect how you are, physically and every other way. You're so—giving, and that… really amazes me, you know that? There's not many people who're that way, not on this planet. I guess I just think I'm lucky. I haven't been that great at taking care of myself, and I don't put myself out there and meet many people, so it's a good thing we ended up working together. A very good thing."

Milly's soft thank you, ma'am; I think so, too is all she needs to hear, and Milly gestures for her to start eating, picking up her own utensils. "Do you know what you were saying before, about how you know now you don't have to date if you don't want to?" A nod from Milly. "It's really true. And that's what it is for me—I don't want to, so I don't. It… doesn't work for me like that, I've found, connecting with people. All the people I've tried with, it—kept going the way it did with that one man I mentioned. It isn't that I don't want a partner, really. My body, my brain… they just work differently than what people expect, so if I'm going to be with someone, it's going to have to be someone who… understands me. Accepts me. And I'm not going to meet that person… on the street, or at a mixer, or anything like that, I don't think. So if you think it won't work that way for you, either, don't push yourself. You don't have to."

"I suppose I always thought it would happen eventually, and that I would… let it, because I expected it to happen. Not necessarily because I wanted it." Milly frowns a little down at the salad. "That's the kind of thing you mean, isn't it, about the way people… assume it's what you want?"

"Yes." She really hopes Milly doesn't ask more about why the whole thing makes her sigh. "It's not exactly light dinner conversation, so maybe we should leave it here, but… I've thought about it a lot. We can talk about it one day, just not this one."

"I agree. What a waste of your birthday that would be, talking about other people being foolish."

"Not when there's lots of other things I'd like to talk about instead. You said your grandmother made this—Eleanora, the one you've told me about?"

Milly nods eagerly. "My grandfather made her a loom when my biggest sister was just a little girl. She always makes any new person who joins the family their own. Mine at home is gold and blue."

"I'd love to see the rest of them, one day." She wonders if she'll get the chance, if the ease she's finding in Milly's home will extend to the Thompson homestead. As she wonders, she tastes a forkful of the risotto, letting out a contented sigh as she savors the creamy texture of it.

"I did well?" Milly asks hopefully, and Meryl laughs.

"Of course you did; I never thought you'd do poorly. It's fantastic. You'll have to show me where you got those mushrooms. They're one of my favorite things and I'm always struggling to find good ones…"

She'd known to expect a fine meal by now—she can't think of anything Milly's made yet that's disappointed her—but as they eat, she finds herself putting this meal, this night, higher and higher in her estimation. She'd helped make it herself, for one thing, when she'd been so baffled originally at how Milly even found the energy to cook. She'd never thought she could help make food this delicious, not when her efforts in her mother's kitchen had never been up to snuff.

And of course Milly has just happened to make sure there are plenty of leftovers.

"Would you like to stay for a little while?" Milly's offer, when it comes as they wash up, is shy and somehow hesitant. "You don't have to, of course; I'm sure my apartment is cluttered and you might want to get home early, but I thought I would offer…"

Milly's face, her fixed concentration on the dish she's washing, is what she imagines a mirror trained on her own earlier would have looked like. Milly is nervous; that hits her like a ton of bricks.

Somehow it hadn't occurred to her she might not be the only one worried she'll screw everything up.

"I'd love to stay, if you'll have me."

It doesn't change the nervousness on Milly's face any, but she thinks a little relief creeps up next to it. It's something she's felt herself—relief Milly seems to want to be around her, tempered by a worry that maybe one day that will change.

She settles comfortably on Milly's couch while Milly takes a seat in an armchair she can tell is well-loved, probably Milly's favorite spot in the whole place judging by the slight contouring of the cushions around her form. Milly apologizes again for the spots of clutter and Meryl shakes her head. "Oh, no, don't worry about it. I'd much rather you leave things as they are than stress about me coming… but if it bothers you this much, I could help you figure out how to organize some things next time I come? You've seen my desk, so you can gather by now I'm… maybe a little too good at that."

"That is true… everything does have its place on your desk." Milly nods, after a moment of thought. "I'd like that, then. Thank you."

"Of course. It's actually something I like to do very much. One of those odd little things about me." At the back of her mind she's almost positive Milly wouldn't call it odd—Milly doesn't agree with what most people think about her, that much is clear—but the impulse to fob it off is still there and she follows it. "Maybe it's another thing I get from my mother. She wanted the house to be neat just as much as she fussed over my clothes."

"There were too many people in my house for my mother to ever pay much mind to a bit of mess here and there." Milly laughs, and the sound of it—another thought spared to maybe one day seeing where Milly had grown up—gets Meryl's mind off her mother, and she lets herself relax. She fusses absently with the waistband of her slacks—it really had been a good meal—as Milly reaches to one side of the armchair and closes her hand around a basket resting on the floor.

The basket of knitting yarn and needles is halfway to her lap before she looks up. "Oh… would you mind very much if I did some knitting? It's only that my nephew's communion is very soon and I'm so close to the end of his present…"

"No, of course not. I've actually meant to tell you how impressive I find it, that critter." She still grins softly at the sight of it now—she thinks it's called an elephant, from what she's seen in her father's books of Earth history. No matter that she hasn't seen one in person, that no one has, she knows Milly's captured it expertly. She's seen Milly knitting many a time through interminable meetings; it looks unfathomably complicated even to hands like hers that tangle regularly now with embroidery floss.

Milly blushes at the compliment and says a soft thank you. "My granny Eleanora taught me."

"Would this again be the granny who wants people to mind their own damn business?" A firm nod from Milly. "Then she's a great woman indeed."

Milly's lips twitch with a smile as she gets her things in order. Meryl reaches for her purse and lets her fingertips brush the slim volume within. "If you'll be knitting, would you mind me reading a bit? I won't mind talking some if you want to, of course, but if you need quiet to concentrate, I'm happy to just sit here with my book."

"Oh, either is fine. I usually keep the radio on while I knit here… but back home, my sister Aurora used to sit with me doing just that, reading. It's the thing she loves best." Milly looks up curiously from her yarn. "May I ask what you're reading, ma'am?"

"It's the silliest thing, really." Even as she says it, it feels a betrayal of a story she'd kept at her side through childhood upsets and illnesses, a treasured friend. Funny, that even with Milly she still feels sometimes the need to diminish even her littlest pleasures.

"I loved it when I was a child. An Earth book my father found in an antiquarian shop years ago, about a princess who doesn't want to be one, or to have a husband. So she asks a dragon to take her on." Meryl trails her fingers along the spine. "I found it in a trunk of old things I'd brought with me from home and never quite gone through, thought I'd have a look at it again. I wonder now if that wasn't what I liked about it—a girl who wanted more than just… a prince. She wanted adventure; I did, too."

Still do. She doesn't say it aloud, mostly because it feels foolish in this moment. As much as she wants to be out in the world, she can't deny the part of herself that feels rested, happy, here with Milly. A part of herself she doesn't mind keeping well-fed.

"That sounds delightful. Aurora would like it, I think. I'll have to tell her, my next postcard."

"Did you have any favorite stories of your own, growing up?" Meryl wants to know, suddenly, having shared that part of herself with Milly. What kinds of books does someone like Milly love? Does her love for food manifest in reading things like cookbooks or travel memoirs? Or maybe she'll admit to loving something completely different like murder mysteries or melodramas.

"I'm afraid not." Milly looks bashful and then, suddenly, very intent on her yarn. "I've never been all that strong a reader. I suppose you've noticed how slowly I go through reports, compared to you… I think that's why I took to the radio serials, or Aurora telling me about what she read… that's disappointing, isn't it, after you asked such a nice question…?"

"Of course not. I just love reading because it always came easily for me—too easily, my mother sometimes thought, when I got into things I shouldn't have. There's lots of things I find difficult I've never caught on to—like knitting, like you're doing. My mother tried teaching me, did I ever tell you that? I was awful at keeping count. So don't feel bad. If we all enjoyed the same things, conversation would get pretty dull."

Milly nods absently, like she's having trouble believing it. It makes Meryl's chest twinge with the urge to ease her mind. "You just said Aurora would tell you about the things she reads. Would you like me to tell you more about this one? Or—I could even read to you, if you'd like. I've never done that for anyone." The next thought she has makes her face feel a little hot—it's odd, admitting to something she's felt for so long—but she makes herself say it. "I always thought I'd like to, if I ever met someone who enjoyed that, so… it wouldn't be any trouble."

"You're sure…?"

"Very." Milly's still focused on her knitting, so instead of a reassuring smile Meryl offers something else. "But if you're that worried, just think of it as me paying you back for the meal. Singing for my supper, in a way."

"It feels wrong, you doing that on your birthday, but… well, when we're at your apartment I suppose I'd like to do a little something extra, too, so… maybe that's all right, then." Milly flicks her gaze up from her yarn and smiles nervously. "Would you read me a chapter?"

It's a good thing she knows the story so well, Meryl thinks; it cuts down on any stage fright. She reads the first few lines, Milly listening intently, and she smiles to herself as she reaches the hook of that first page. "All in all, Linderwall was a very prosperous and pleasant place.

"Cimorene hated it."

Milly's shy titters of amusement becomes actual laughter as the night goes on and Meryl reads a few more of Cimorene's misadventures, giving them as much life as she can. She mixes up which voices go with which characters a time or two, has to break for her own laughter here and there, but Milly never seems to mind.

It's fun, Meryl can't help but think, as she rests the book in her lap; she's growing a little hoarse and they'll have to stop here. She'd always hoped reading to someone, telling someone a story, would be fun.

"There's a scene," Meryl says wistfully, marking her place in the book with her finger, "where Cimorene is trying to fool some people who are up to no good, and she borrows mannerisms from all her sisters in turn… I loved that. The thought of having so many siblings each of them were so… so unique." Suddenly she regrets starting down this path; the question feels so foolish. "I guess I'd like to ask if it's really like that. Having so many siblings."

"It was for me." Milly reaches over to her credenza and finds a picture frame there. She hands it over to Meryl, pointing to a tall woman standing next to who Meryl assumes is Mrs. Thompson. "That's Aurora, who I've been telling you about! She needs to keep her hair short; she plays with it too much otherwise. Bridget, she always bit her nails when she was nervous. Trevor—he's the youngest of my all my older siblings, the one just before me—he stuttered when he was a child…"

Milly has one thing left in store for her, pulled subtly from her fridge as they'd finished dinner and unnoticed by Meryl until she points it out. "I found a chocolate cake at one of the bakeries nearby… do you remember those cookies I bought to the potluck? It's that one… I asked if it would suit you, and they said it was vegan—I tried what they offered me, and it really is delicious… should it have a candle? I have a candle…"

"I don't remember the last time I wished for something." It's the truth; she laughs a little when she thinks about it. "But I think I can think of something."

The noise she lets out at the first taste of the cake—rich, moist, and the best chocolate cake she's had in a while—is truly embarrassing, but it makes Milly happy. Much as Milly is usually sporting a smile, this one is her widest all night. "I knew you'd enjoy it," she crows, and Meryl dabs at her lips with a napkin.

"You know how to make me happy, that's for sure."

Chapter Text

One of the secretaries stops by her desk early in the day to let her know Milly won't be coming in, that she's called in a rare sick day. Rare indeed; Meryl can't remember many of them for Milly these last few months, but then, she's one to talk, the things she's pushed through she shouldn't have.

She tries to remind herself the first time the worry creeps in it's a bit foolish. Milly is a grown woman and for all she knows it's little more a bad cold. But, well, the instincts that keep nagging at her feel suspiciously like what she imagines having a sibling feels like. Someone should be checking on Milly; she'd want someone to be checking on her, and Milly is her someone.

She lets the same secretary know she's taking a half day.

She goes home to change into more casual clothing, wincing at the thought of Milly seeing her so dressed down but reminding herself Milly is ill and it will even out. She grabs her key to Milly's place—they'd exchanged shortly after their talk about that awful comment from Peg—and makes a short mental list of things Milly might need she can run through when she gets there.

She calls to make sure she won't scare Milly by walking in unannounced, her worry peaking at how dazed Milly sounds. She ignores an airy please don't trouble yourself, ma'am! and promises Milly she'll be there soon.

"Get some rest for me, Milly, would you?" she adds, gentler, and tries to take comfort in the dizzy I will she hears before she hangs up. Nothing much of anything can happen while she takes the ile and a half or so walk to Milly's, hopefully, she tries to convince herself as she puts on her mask.

Of course, as stubborn as she is herself, it should have occurred to her to expect the same from Milly. When she lets herself in to the apartment it's to find Milly in the kitchen, about to pull a whistling tea kettle off the stove and over to a mug waiting on the counter. "I said not to trouble yourself!" she protests feebly as Meryl darts so quickly into the apartment and to her side she almost trips on her own feet. But Milly wins out in the inelegance competition, unbalanced enough by Meryl's cutting in to stop her from picking up the teapot that she sways on her feet and totters into the counter, her lower back hitting against it.

"Oh…" she says weakly, closing her eyes; Meryl watches her squeeze the countertop to steady herself as Meryl finishes pouring the hot water. "I… feel dizzy…"

"I'm not surprised." Meryl reaches up and rests one of her hands on the back of Milly's neck, asks softly for her to tip her head down when she feels up to it. She presses her inner wrist to Milly's forehead to feel how hot she is and sighs inwardly. She'd been right to worry.

"Milly, you should be resting. I thought you would at least be doing that much if you called out today. Sit down?" She's steered Milly to the couch and set the mug of tea on the coffee table. With Milly settled she can finally step out of her shoes and shut the door of the apartment; she'd left it wide open behind her in her haste to stop Milly from grabbing the teapot.

"I only called out because I didn't want to get you sick, ma'am." Milly has opened her eyes again by the time Meryl sits beside her on the couch. Her gaze is glassy, and Meryl guides her hands to the mug. "I hope you won't get sick from coming here now…"

"I'll be okay, I promise. I've got my mask, and I'll be careful, do some cleaning with disinfectant. And that doesn't explain why you weren't resting."

"I didn't need to rest! I felt well enough to heat the water…"

"But you might have hurt yourself if you'd picked up the kettle while you were that unsteady on your feet. That's what I was worried about; I'm sorry I cut in and made you dizzy. I'm here now, so please let me help you today, honey."

Milly doesn't mind the nickname, if the way she beams at it is any indication. Meryl smiles and rubs her hand along her shoulder as she sips the tea. "Once you're done with the tea, I'll get you a cold glass of water, and you should try and lie down, get some sleep. I thought I'd make you some food and do anything else you need. Is your stomach settled?"

"Fortunately it is." Milly wraps her other hand around the mug to steady it. "Maybe you could make some rice balls? And find some crackers?"

"Rice balls it is. I think even I can manage that."

She stays on the couch as Milly finishes the tea, still rubbing her shoulder. A quick glance around the apartment shows her many of the organizational tips she gave Milly a hand with are still in place; her smile widens at that. A smile that fades briefly into surprise when she sees the picture frame on Milly's credenza.

"That picture is the one that jewelry store owner took of us, isn't it? After we sorted out all that paperwork?"

"I asked if he could send me a copy when he got it developed! He's a very nice man…"

"I thought so, too. I… it didn't occur to me you'd have a picture of us here, which sounds silly, I know we're friends… just means I should put one up at my place, too."

When she returns from rinsing out Milly's empty mug and setting it in the sink to wash later, Milly is still seated on the couch, looking hesitant. "Something wrong?" Meryl softly prods.

"It's only… I'm so much larger than you, and I'm still a little dizzy… if you help me to the bedroom and I stumble or fall, you could get very hurt…"

"Oh, Milly, honey…" She takes a seat on Milly's sturdy old trunk-as-coffee-table and holds her knees. "It's so sweet of you to worry about me so much, and I mean that. But you need help right now and I'm here to give it to you. If you're worried you'll stumble, we'll take it as slowly as you need to, but nothing's going to stop me from giving you a hand."

Milly looks more fretful than she'd like still, but she at least shakily gets up and accepts the steadying arm Meryl wraps around her waist. They make slow progress to the bedroom, and Milly lets out a relieved sigh when she's safely seated on the bed.

Meryl fetches her a glass of cold water while she gets comfortable. A quick glance at her watch tells her it will be late afternoon soon enough; she'll be helping Milly into the evening, and doesn't mind the thought. Even with eating dinner with Milly four nights a week, or perhaps because of it, she finds it's lonely sometimes returning to the oppressive quiet of her own apartment each night. Already she wonders if Milly will protest too much if she offers to stay the night and help her out tomorrow, too. She'll have to tell her how much it would put her mind at ease.

Milly accepts the cold water and a cold compress to help ease the discomfort of the fever with a soft thank you, ma'am. When Milly says it's all right she sits on the bed with her, drawing her legs up alongside.

"Can I ask you something, Milly? You knew I was on my way; you didn't have to go to all the trouble of making tea yourself when I would have helped when I got here. Are you not comfortable with me being here? Or is there something else?"

Milly wrings her hands once she's set the glass of water back on her nightstand. "You won't be mad if I say, will you?"

"Of course not. I just want to understand you a little better so I can help."

"It's only… I have so many siblings, and our house had so many people in it, when one person got sick most of the rest of them would, over time… but it also meant there was always someone to take care of me when I got sick. I didn't really know what would happen when I got sick living on my own, and I thought I should try taking care of myself, so I didn't have to trouble you…"

"It's no trouble when I want to help. I just need you to know that you worried me before, very much, with the kettle. I understand why you wanted to do it all yourself… I mean, you were the one who realized I was doing too much myself, so you know I get it. You remember that you said you would help me in an emergency, right? Well, you also said I would help you, and I agreed. And we didn't know each other nearly as well then. Now we do. I want you to take good care of yourself, Milly, and for today that means letting me take care of you. Promise?"

"Promise," Milly says softly, with a tiny smile. She looks drowsy, Meryl notes with relief, probably from the combination of chamomile tea and the chance to lie down after overexerting herself. Now she just needs to make sure Milly actually sleeps.

"I brought my book… would you like me to read to you? I'll keep track of where you drift off, so we won't lose our place."

"I like this one," Milly murmurs, as Meryl carefully extracts the book her father had sent as her birthday gift from her purse. In his retirement he's been volunteering with a society formed to preserve and replicate as many Earth texts as possible from notes made by historians and oral accounts passed down over time. He'd chosen one he'd thought she'd especially like, A Midsummer Night's Dream, and she's been enjoying reading it to Milly, testing her ever-expanding arsenal of voices and accents. "The donkey-man is so funny… I like the voice you do for him, ma'am."

"It's worth killing my throat with all that braying, then."

It doesn't take very long for Milly to nod fully off, and Meryl sits for a few minutes longer at her side, watching the rise and fall of her breathing. She resists the urge to stroke her hair; Milly's asleep, and she doesn't want to take a liberty. But, god… there really is a knot of worry in her chest that only started easing once she'd known Milly was safe from hurting herself with the kettle. Once she'd known she was there to take care of her.

Surely this was how Milly had felt, watching her skip meals, not take breaks, come in poorly rested. Her throat feels uncomfortably tight at the thought. God, how had Milly waited as long as she did to say something? Why had she worried her so much, been so callous as to not notice in the first place how much Milly was fretting about her?

You're here now, she reminds herself, taking one final look at Milly and laying the book on her nightstand before she gets to her feet. You're going to take care of her, and you're not going to be an idiot again.

She hopes.

She knows by now where Milly's recipe box is, a slightly battered metal one Milly had told her all her family members had put together for her when she'd left home. The first time Meryl had gotten a look inside, she'd been surprised by the recipe cards. There was none of the complicated jargon she remembered from her mother's cookbooks, only simple instructions and neat printing.

"My mother wrote them out, that's her handwriting, but everyone contributed," Milly explained. "And everything's broken down so simply because, well… we… realized quickly when I tried to help as a child that I don't do very well when there's too many steps. When the instructions use too many words… so they figured out ways to simplify things for me. It probably sounds foolish, when I say it like that…"

Her heart hurt a little watching Milly's eyes flick away from hers, seemingly in shame. After telling her about her difficulties reading, Milly had started slowly confessing more about the troubles she had with it all, but every time she seemed sure Meryl would sneer at her for it, or laugh. The whole thing made Meryl's stomach hurt.

"I like this," Meryl said firmly, pointing to a recipe she'd pulled from the box, for a winter soup. "I'm so new to cooking I'm not very good at understanding recipes, either. My mother, she… she was so used to it all she never really wanted to explain things to me. She just wanted me to be able to jump in and help, no questions asked. Something like this… I think even I could understand it. … It—it makes me feel more comfortable. If I'm honest."

The relief that washed over Milly's face eased her mind some, though that worry being taken care of brought in another. How long until Milly started asking questions about just how useless she was in the kitchen? How long until even Milly would hit her with a "surely you must know how to—?"

She swallowed back the anxiety and gently tucked the recipe card she'd pulled out back in place, before finding the one Milly had said they'd be working from, for ratatouille. "I've been meaning to thank you, you know," she said hastily, trying to pull them entirely off the subject, "for figuring out so many vegetable dishes we could make. I'm sure it's frustrating having your options limited…"

"No, no! I like making things you can eat!..."

Sure enough, there are instructions for how to make grilled rice balls in the style Milly favors. It feels silly, needing instructions for something so basic, but there's a security in having them at her side, cleanly written and easy to understand. She gets the rice washed and combines it with the water she sets to boil, enjoying the simple rhythms of it all. She's always liked having steps to follow, a clear plan, and the Thompson family recipe cards are clearer than anything else she's seen.

Standing at Milly's counter waiting for the rice to cook, Meryl finds her thoughts drifting further and further out. It's strange, how completely at ease she feels in Milly's kitchen. Kitchens weren't exactly her favorite place in the world, and hard as she's tried not to let onto it, she imagines Milly is starting to get an idea of why.

"Nothing at all?" her college roommate asked, eyeing her skeptically. "You can't even make a batch of cookies, or something?"

"I'd prefer not to," Meryl said quietly. She didn't like making eye contact to begin with, so it probably didn't seem too unusual she kept her gaze entirely on her textbook. "I could… I could bring something from one of the bakeries?"

"The whole point of a potluck is it's supposed to be homemade." Her roommate shrugged and took a step back, closer to the door. "I guess I asked. If you don't want to participate…"

"Thanks anyway," Meryl whispered, and her roommate mumbled a sure, whatever as she left the room.

It's an odd memory to dwell on, but one she finds herself thinking of more often than not, cooking with Milly. If she'd just gotten over herself in college, maybe she'd have gone to the potluck. Made friends, like Milly. Been normal.

Milly makes her feel normal. Milly doesn't treat her as difficult to be around. She hasn't let herself think about it in quite that way before. Even when she messes up in the kitchen, Milly's never hard on her.

"How'd you make out with the vegetables, ma'am?"

Meryl eyed the plate up and down and poked a few vegetables with a fork. "Not… not too well, I think, seeing them all laid out like this." It was so stupid she felt queasy admitting it, wasn't it? "I'm sorry, Milly. You got us such nice ones and I just—I just ruined them."

"No, no, they're all right!" Milly almost rushed to her side, looking the plate of vegetables over. "You're right, you sliced them a little too thickly; it might be difficult to roast them if they're too big. But we could still make something out of them! They might not look like they should, but they'll taste lovely all the same."

The other stupid thing was how badly her eyes were stinging. She couldn't cry in Milly's kitchen, but she couldn't trust herself to speak either. Maybe Milly noticed—she hoped to god she didn't—but maybe it was kidding herself to think she wouldn’t see it. Maybe that was why Milly had pressed closer to nudge her hip into Meryl's. "You know, I actually like chopping. I can handle it next time! There's plenty of things you can do very well if you didn't like this one…"

Even now, she closes her eyes at the sting of shame the memory brings back. She hates that it still hurts so much. Milly's done beautifully at giving her tasks she feels comfortable with, at patiently explaining even basic things.

But of course, it's not Milly's fault she feels so damn useless.

"For god's sake, Meryl," Rebecca snapped, stalking over to the other side of the range and turning the heat off. "None of this is difficult. I'm not sure why you insist on making it so."

"Mom—" Meryl started, but her mother didn't acknowledge it, brushing past her with the pot of burned oatmeal in hand. Carrying it to the sink, Meryl thought. "I'm sorry, I know it's simple, I just—I got distracted. I'm so… I'm so worried about Dad…"

"Your father will be fine." Rebecca picked up a sponge and began roughly scrubbing the sides of the pot. "And caring for him would be much easier if you'd bothered to learn anything about keeping house. If your father and Casper hadn't indulged you with—fantastical nonsense, all those books, instead of listening to me… if I'd had my way you would have learned proper etiquette. Housekeeping. How to socialize. Not how to hole yourself up in a library hiding from perfectly decent people!"

"Mom." She didn't know why she kept saying it, as though her mother were listening to her. "You… you really think my reading is why I'm not—?"

"When I was your age I knew practical skills. Sewing your father's buttons back on. Making meals. Caring for a child—caring for you," she said tensely. "You aren't any use to anyone like this."

She couldn't cry in front of her mother. That was a bridge she really didn't want to cross. "I'm trying, Mom," she whispered. "I love Dad. I want to be here while he gets better. I'm sorry me being here isn't enough."

Her mother didn't answer, so she couldn't tell if the apology was accepted or if, like so much else between them, it was just going to linger unacknowledged. Meryl left the kitchen with a knot of difficult feelings settling in her stomach and her eyes still burning with tears.

She felt calmer at her father's bedside somehow, even with the worry eating away a hole in her stomach. For a while she watched him sleep, until he opened his eyes and eyed her up, confusion lining his brow as he saw her tears. "Tried helping Mom with your breakfast," she whispered. "Not good enough for that, so… can I read to you instead?"

Her stomach aches, she finds, when she shakes off the memory. While the rice cools, she leans one arm against the counter, taking a shaky breath in and kneading one hand against her belly to try and ease the knot of discomfort there. She hasn't dwelt on that memory in quite some time, and she supposes it's no wonder she got lost in it today. Caring for Milly is the first time she's taken care of someone since those long months helping her mother care for her father.

Her mother hadn't exactly minced words back then. She was poorly suited for the role of caretaker in Rebecca Stryfe's estimation, and her father may have disagreed, but by the time he'd regained enough of his speech to be coherent, the argument had long since died. Rebecca had taken on more and more tasks around the house, insisting the only way they'd be done right would be if she did them herself. Meryl had been a loose end more often than not, tried to busy herself with making sure her father wasn't too lonely. And with Aidan.

She steps to the sink and wets her hands, willing them to stop shaking so she can handle the rice. It's foolish to be so upset, she chastises herself, even if her body wants to tell her otherwise. She has a task ahead of her, an important one, making sure Milly is fed and comfortable. She can feel sorry for herself some other time, surely.

It feels good getting her hands in the rice, shaping the balls she makes into slightly sloppy triangles that are nonetheless something she made. She feels a tiny swell of pride watching the rice balls cook on the grill, getting to take each one off and lightly brush them with soy sauce. It feels good, doing it all by herself. Better than she would have thought when she'd fobbed off her roommate rather than admit the thought of opening herself up to judgment in a kitchen made her feel sick.

I can actually do something like this right. Who knew.

When the rice balls have nicely browned to her satisfaction, and hopefully to Milly's, she eases some of them into a bowl, pleased when they hold their shape and don't crumble apart. The pride doesn't fade. She'd been so prepared to berate herself, to remind herself this is a small thing, something so many women her age must have learned years before. But that voice in her head that sounds too much like her mother's is quiet, because instead all she can think about is Milly's. Milly hopefully telling her she's done a good job, that everything is tasty, that it was just what she wanted.

She won't know unless she serves her the food, will she?

Milly is already stirring by the time she eases the door open. "Just in time," Meryl laughs. "Do you feel up to eating a little something?"

Milly nods and accepts the bowl Meryl rests in her lap, grinning at the sight of them. "They look so nice, ma'am! Thank you!"

She can't help it, she's beaming. She joins in on Milly's soft recitation of the grace poem, then hands Milly a fork, watching her spear some of the rice and chew. Milly hums in slightly stuffy pleasure and swallows a bite, contented. "Mmm… you made them look nice and pretty in the bowl… I must have been hungrier than I thought, if my stomach's growling this much from the smell…"

"Then just focus on eating, not talking," Meryl laughs softly. She gives Milly's shoulder a soft rub, watches Milly close her eyes in gratitude for the food and the touch both. "I'm glad I could do something to help, honey. Would you mind me staying over tonight? I'd just be worried if I went home. I can sleep on the couch no problem. That's not too hard, at my size."

"You wouldn't mind?" Milly asks warily. Her hand fidgets on her fork.

"Not in the least. I don't think I've even scratched the surface here. You're going to need more meals and more fluids, and I know I feel gross when I've been feverish… I can help you get a bath in, change your bedding? And after you're done with the bath, I can brush your hair, maybe braid it so it won't be in your way. I'd love to do that, by the way, I love caring for long hair…"

"Ma'am?" Milly interrupts, quietly, so she stops herself from continuing, lets Milly get a word in. "I… I really would like if you stayed… but… can I—say something?" Milly sets the fork down in her bowl, and Meryl watches her face redden, watches her turn her gaze away.

"I told you I never went out with any boys at home… well, because of that, you see… no one's seen me naked. … You've always been very kind about giving me privacy when we stay places together, and I appreciate that, but… I'm afraid I'm not… terribly comfortable with anyone seeing me that way." Meryl feels a twinge somewhere below her ribs as she realizes Milly sounds close to crying. "I'm so—so big, it… it must not be a pretty sight… anyway…"

"Milly, no. Please don't talk about yourself that way…" Meryl holds out a hand, gratified when Milly takes it, even if she keeps her grip loose, like she wants the chance to pull away at any second. "First of all, Milly, we might be different sizes, but I've never thought of you as anything but beautiful. I'd like you to know that, and I'll repeat it as many times as you need to hear it." Gently, she squeezes Milly's hand, waits for a squeeze back.

"Second of all… I understand. You don't need to be embarrassed about asking. I've had partners, been intimate, but—the way things are for me, I've never felt very comfortable being naked around anyone, either. It's very vulnerable, and I'm sorry I didn't think more before suggesting it."

"Thank you, ma'am," Milly whispers. "I… I feel better… I really would like a bath, but… do you think you could keep your eyes closed…?"

"That's perfectly reasonable. I'll need to see to help you with your hair, but we can draw the curtain so I'll only see what you're comfortable with. Okay?"

Milly nods, and Meryl keeps rubbing her shoulder softly. "Why don't you see if you can eat a little more, and then we'll see about that bath? If you'd like me out of the room while you undress, I can strip the sheets, put them in the wash, if you feel steady enough on your feet."

"That sounds like a good idea." Still, Milly looks away from her. "You're sure it's all right if I have seconds?"

"Why wouldn't it be? I offered. Really, I'm glad you want to eat them at all, that I didn't…" She's about to continue on down that path—glad I didn't screw up, didn't burn the place down, didn't…—but Milly is looking at the bedspread. Looking embarrassed. It takes a second too long for the why to click into place. Those comments she'd mentioned during the birthday dinner, things people have said about her appetite.

She'd wonder why Milly has held on to such unkind words, but then…

Peg. You should really think about blowing the dust off down there, Stryfe.

Giorgio. If you'd let me get off once in a while, if you weren't so—frigid—all the time—

Her mother. You're honestly telling me you need new clothes? After all that shopping we did before you left? I thought I could trust you to be sensible and eat well, not gain that freshman fifteen, but then, when you aren't cooking for yourself, what should I expect…

"Milly, look at me." She speaks as softly as she can, waits for Milly to turn her gaze back to her. "I made that meal for you, because you asked for it. Because I wanted to take care of you like you have of me. You enjoyed it, and that made me happy. I made it for you, so I want you to have as much as you'd like. I don't ever want you to feel bad about enjoying food, okay? Not when you've made me enjoy it so much, too."

"I have?" Milly whispers, and there's a genuine tremor of doubt in it. "You mean that? You haven't just been… going along with it, these last few months?"

"Not in the least. I'm happy when I'm cooking with you, honey, and now for you."

"Then… I really would like a few more. Please." Milly's smile is watery, but there. Meryl wraps her arm fully around Milly's shoulder and, for a moment, presses herself close in a squeeze, before letting her go and heading back to the kitchen.

Milly happily eats a few more rice balls, taking Meryl's advice this time and focusing on the food, and not conversation. Meryl's happy just to sit with her, the moments of rest easing the faint ache in her legs from standing to cook earlier. When Milly sets her cleaned plate down again, she says, "You did a very good job, ma'am. I was afraid you wouldn't feel comfortable cooking by yourself. It looks like I didn't have to worry!"

If Milly notices her eyes watering when she thanks her, she doesn't mention it, and Meryl finds she's very grateful for that.

She helps Milly to her feet and into the little bathroom adjacent to her bedroom, making sure she feels okay before she does as she promised and strips the sheets. She runs them and some pajamas down to the laundry room in the building's basement, before returning to the apartment. Milly's sitting on the edge of the bathtub wrapped in a towel, the bathwater mostly drawn. Meryl checks the water against the inside of her own arm (can't be too careful) and nods, satisfied.

"Any bubble baths or anything you like? Bath bombs?"

"Bath bombs?" Milly asks curiously, and Meryl feels her lips twitching.

"Maybe that stuff never really reached your hometown… I think I know what we can go shop for next time we head into a city."

When the bath is ready she keeps her back turned as promised, waits until Milly tells her she's settled and she can turn back. Meryl sits on the rug by the tub and crosses her legs under her, taking the little cup Milly had grabbed for her she can use for rinsing Milly's hair.

"Did you mean what you said, ma'am? That you'd like caring for my hair? I was afraid it would be too much, with it being so long…"

"No, no… that's kind of my dream, really. I'd keep my hair long if the feeling of it didn't bother me. I hate having my hair on my neck." Meryl shifts her weight a bit. "I… I did wear it long, for quite a while. I'll—show you pictures sometime of when I was young. But for the past few years… this has suited me better." She runs her fingers along the back of her neck, the close-cropped hair there. "Maybe the only thing I liked about having long hair was getting to style it. So it's no problem! This'll be my first chance in a while."

"You kept it long when you didn't like to?" Milly sounds a little confused. Meryl hopes for once it's the fever and not the start of a conversation she hasn't quite figured out yet.

"I did." She smiles a little thinly, decides maybe she can say this one thing. She owes Milly a little honesty, weird as it feels. "I… think I mentioned my mother likes things a certain way?"

"Oh. You did." Milly stares down at the surface of the bathwater, then says, "Well, I like your hair the way it is now! It suits you."

It makes sense Milly might have noticed she's not exactly fond of the topic, with everything else she's noticed. Meryl relaxes her shoulders a little. "Thank you. I think so, too."

"I'd still like to see those pictures, though, if you wouldn't mind…"

She actually wouldn't. "I'll find some for you. You'll probably like the ones with the sweaters my mom knitted…"

She's working conditioner through Milly's hair when Milly asks another question. "You said you don't like it when your hair touches your neck. Is there anything else you really don't like? In case I should know…"

Suddenly she's unsure. Won't anything she could say seem fussy? Overly particular? Anal retentive, demanding…

But Milly's looking at her so earnestly, so… "You already know I keep my desk a certain way… I like having everything in order on my blotter. … I don't… like when things are too loud. You remember the street fair? I had my earplugs in… certain fabrics are uncomfortable for me. It's all—things like that. Nothing you need to worry about."

"That's not true! I want to remember."

She actually doesn't doubt Milly does. "That's very sweet of you, Milly. I do appreciate it."

When it's been left in for long enough she rinses the conditioner from Milly's hair, hands her the soap so she can clean herself up some. As promised she looks away, takes the time to say, "You know, all today you've been worried me taking care of you is too much, somehow… I felt strange about it when you started making me dinner, so I understand that, too. But it isn't too much. I care about you; I just want you to know that."

"It's been nice, you know… spending a whole day together…" Milly says it somewhat shyly.

She turns back when Milly whispers she can, gives her wet shoulder another little squeeze. "I think so, too, honey."

When she's sure Milly's steady enough to get out of the bath and dress in clean pajamas, she gets up to put fresh sheets on the bed. When she turns back Milly's looking through her drawers, pulling out a top here and there and frowning a little. "Everything of mine would be much too big for you…"

"Oh, you don't have to put yourself out—"

"Aha! I do have something." Milly smiles proudly and pulls out a few shirts. "One of my cousins came to stay with me a few months ago, you're a similar size… oh, but you should probably check these first, shouldn't you? Make sure they're not one of the fabrics you don't like?"

She really is so sincere. So attentive. All the time.

She won't ever stop being grateful for that, will she? Meryl steps forward and runs her fingers over the soft heathered material, sighing inwardly in relief. "These will be perfect, Milly, thank you."

Milly beams. Meryl gestures to the freshly made bed and Milly settles onto it. Meryl clambers up onto it behind her, reaching for Milly's hairbrush. She'd wrung her hair partly dry in the bathroom, so all that's left now is to brush it; Meryl gets started, pleased. Milly's hair really is as soft and healthy as it looks.

"How're you feeling now?" she asks softly, to check in, and Milly takes a moment to answer, yawning first.

"A bit sleepy now, after the food and the bath… and you being so nice to brush my hair…"

"I'll be quick," Meryl promises. "Better overall?"

"Much. The water was so nice and warm…"

Another good job, then. Meryl silently relaxes. She hasn't screwed up; she's gotten everything right.

"You're so gentle," Milly says drowsily. "Sometimes people pull too hard, or tug my head how they want it…"

"I try as hard as I can not to. My hair's pretty thick. Not as much of a problem now that I keep it short, but when it was longer, brushing it was tough. When I was too young to care for it on my own, my mom had to take the lead… it usually ended in tears." Meryl shifts her weight on the bed. "I used to help other girls with their hair at camp sometimes… I learned about working with different types of hair that way. And how to treat mine better. It helped."

"My hair's so fine. It doesn't hold a curl very well. I was always jealous of my sister Samantha." There's a little pout on Milly's face, that makes Meryl glad her mask hides how her own lips twitch. "Can I help you with yours one day, ma'am?"

"Oh… maybe. … I helped other girls at camp, but I didn't really let anyone return the favor. … I'll think about it?"

Milly nods carefully, so she won't mess up the brushing. "Ma'am?" The question is tentative. "You don't really like it when people touch you, do you?"

Meryl lets out a breath, feels the warmth of it on her face due to the mask reflecting it back. "You noticed?" It feels foolish to ask that by now.

"You don't like when people stand too close to your desk. Like when Mr. Jonathan leans over you… and sometimes you stiffen up even with me." Milly turns her head as much as she can. "And that's all right! I'm sorry if I ever made you uncomfortable. I didn't know how to bring it up before, but now…"

"Well… you're right. I guess this is as good an opening as any." Meryl ducks her gaze and Milly seems to get the hint, turning her head back to face forward once more. "It's—it's just how I am. I've never liked it when people just—assume. I don't know if it's just how my brain works, or my body, or what… I put up with it. I have to. I'd just—prefer to have a say in when it happens."

"That sounds reasonable…"

"You'd think." Meryl laughs faintly, tries to ignore the faint churning in her stomach at some of the memories she can feel tugging at the edge of her awareness. How overwhelmed she'd been the times in high school she'd tried to force herself to go out and mingle, and how much she'd regretted it after. The time a woman she'd been interested in had asked her out dancing, and how quickly she'd turned her down, as soon as she'd considered the close press of bodies on the dance floor, the music, the roar of multiple conversations at once. The way she'd sometimes pushed away even her father or his friend Casper, two of the only people she'd ever allowed hugs from as a child, just because the sensation of being held made her squirm with the desire to get away.

Her mother's voice. Again. "Meryl, this is ridiculous. You've known the Shaughnessys all your life. It was rude for you to just—"

"Would it help if I asked first?" Milly is asking. "Asked more? I try to, sometimes, but I know I forget…"

"It… it would help. If it isn't too much trouble for you. But—" Her breath out is shakier than she'd thought it would be. "I do feel comfortable with you. When you hugged me when I was upset over what Peg said… it felt… good. Safe. … You've always felt safe."

"Well, I'm very glad to hear that." Milly stays still—Meryl's hands are in her hair now, braiding—and finishes, "I'd like you to speak up if I ever make you uncomfortable. Or if you'd like a client not to shake your hand or hug you… maybe we can come up with a signal. And if anyone at the office makes you feel that way—well, I suppose it's a good thing I'm bigger than so many of them. I'll just have to start scaring them off."

"Milly." The laugh that comes out of her is so startled it's more of a hiccup. "You really don't have to do that."

"Yes, I do. I don't think you realize how much I would enjoy intimidating Mr. Jonathan. Now that you know, you have to let me."

"Then maybe I will." Meryl releases the finished braid and gives Milly's shoulders a quick squeeze. "There. All done."

Milly says a sleepy thank you and gets under the covers as instructed, her eyes already closed. "Ma'am?" she murmurs through a yawn. "Do you sing? That's another thing I wanted to ask…"

"Do I sing? What gave you that idea?" She's genuinely curious.

"You hum sometimes when you're focused… I always wait for you to sing a little, and you never do. I thought maybe you didn't realize you're doing it…"

"I… actually didn't." Meryl laughs a little. "I do. Or… I did, when I was younger… I got out of the habit as I grew up. … What do I hum?"

Milly hums a few bars, and Meryl closes her eyes to remember the rest. "Makes sense… my neighbor always sang it when she hung out her laundry. I'd sit in our backyard with my book when I knew I wouldn't get sunburnt… I used to like listening to her."

"Can you sing it to me?" Milly's definitely on the edge of sleep now, but the earnestness is still there. "Only if you want to…"

"If it'll help you fall asleep… I'd be happy to."

She shifts positions until she's sitting more comfortably against Milly's headboard, reaches out that hand she'd wanted to rest in Milly's hair earlier. When Milly murmurs an assurance it feels good, she strokes her hair, fumbling for the first words of the song.

She might not get all of the words right, but Milly doesn't mind. She drifts off all the same, and there's a smile on her face when she does.

Meryl finds there's one on hers, too.